


You Know What They Say About Men with Big Shoes

by shiphitsthefan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Aromantic Castiel, Aromantic Dean Winchester, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Bless Me Chuck For I Have Sinned, Closet Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Drunk Sex, Excessive Drinking, Humor, I Solemnly Swear That This Fic Is Not Crack, Kink Discovery, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, The Fic Twitter Asked For, also implied - Freeform, coulrophilia, heavily implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-04 23:33:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12178656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/pseuds/shiphitsthefan
Summary: It was bullshit, but there was hardly anything to be done about it now. Sam wasn’t going to be paying attention to the act, anyway, and there was plenty of booze for the rest of them. Dean snatched up his fifth Sex on the Beach, grabbed one of the stupid hipster longnecks for Sam, and then ushered him to a chair in the middle of the room. His boyfriend, Kevin, looked at Dean warily, but put his hands over Sam’s eyes, anyway.Dean waved the clown into the living room, and that’s when everything went all to hell.***Dean orders a clown stripper for Sam's 21st birthday party, because, as both the older brother and resident asshole, it's expected of him. Unfortunately, Gabriel's Angels sends over the world's absolute worst stripper.He's hot, though, and Dean's not hating the costumenearlyas much as he should...





	You Know What They Say About Men with Big Shoes

**Author's Note:**

> At this point, you're probably asking yourself, "What the actual fuck is happening here? Has Ship finally lost their mind?"
> 
> This fic began life [over here on twitter](https://twitter.com/shiphitsthefan/status/894612957887430656). There was also [this addendum](https://twitter.com/EvelynClear/status/894621516406677505). And then I made it even wackier by using the ridiculous stuff we came up with in the #SPNRescue chat.
> 
> But anyway.
> 
> You have no idea how much fun this was to write. I hope you have just as much fun reading it. :D

In retrospect, the eighth Sex on the Beach might have been a bad idea.

Dean has had hangovers before—he’s the assistant manager down at the Roadhouse for Christ’s sake—but there’s usually another warm, hungover body in his bed to make it better. Another slow fuck, a shared shower, eggs and bacon and the strongest coffee in Dean’s cabinet, an awkwardly-quiet ride to his partner’s place, and that’s that. Hangover solved.

This morning, however, Dean’s alone in his bed, because he had anonymous sex at Sam’s birthday party last night, because he’s a goddamn asshole, apparently.

Not that Dean doesn’t remember what happened; it’s hard to forget what was arguably the best drunk fuck of his life. He only wishes they had made it to his own room, and to his own bed. Then Dean could be sprawled on top of someone, or maybe sprawled under someone, or at the very least not sprawled all by himself.

He doesn’t raise his head to look for his phone when it beeps, choosing to pat around on the other side of the bed for it, instead. Dean finds it, and grabs it, and immediately falls back to sleep until it beeps again.

Ten messages from Charlie, but not a word from Sam.

Doesn’t that just bode extremely fucking well.

 

* * *

 

In Dean’s defense, it’s his job as the older brother—nay, his sworn and sacred duty—to troll and prank the fuck out of Sam. Dean’s own 21st birthday had been fantastic: Benny got a stripper, Charlie and Jo brought two kegs from the Roadhouse and a half-ounce from Charlie’s growhouse; Crowley brought...well, himself and his service dog and a pan of charcoal brownies. But it had been a great time for everyone, and Dean screwed the stripper three or four times, and Ellen gave him the next day off.

Sam’s party was larger by necessity. They shared many of the same friends, and Dean’s coworkers at the Roadhouse were essentially family. Sam, of course, also had his buddies from college. He’d stared down Dean and asked him to behave as soon as he walked into his surprise party, probably concerned that Dean would do something embarrassing like order a clown stripper. Dean had promised he would, and it was a promise he knew he could keep, because he’d already ordered the clown stripper the week before.

“You did what, brother?” Benny had asked him.

“Clown stripper,” Dean had told him around a mouthful of burger. “Seemed appropriate.”

Benny had sighed. “Need to get you a damn keeper.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re a menace to yourself and others,” Crowley had said. Dean threw a fry at him; Juliet snapped it up, because she wasn’t the most well-behaved service dog in the world.

Saturday night came around, and Dean had answered the doorbell to the grumpiest looking clown he’d ever fucking seen. He had on the requisite goofy shoes and curly wig and round red nose; his face was done up in greasepaint, cherry-cheeked and red-lipped with blue triangles above and below his eyes like a split diamond. The clown was wearing an oversize trench coat, which Dean assumed was covering up some skimpy circus-themed g-string. Either that, or Gabriel’s Angels had sent over an exhibitionist perv.

“Is this the Winchester household?”

Dean frowned. He couldn’t decide if the guy’s voice was sexy or just painful. “Not if you have bronchitis, it’s not.”

The clown looked resigned, and bored, and resigned to boredom. “I have chronic vocal polyps. Can I come in?

“Birthday boy’s going to be the giant with the L'oreal mane” said Dean, shrugging as he opened the door wider and ushered the clown inside. “Actually, give me a minute to get him set up. Don’t worry if he pisses himself; he’s terrified of clowns.” Before the clown could say anything, Dean asked, “Did you bring your own music or...?”

“I wasn’t made aware that I needed any.”

Dean paused as he was shutting the door of his condo behind them. “You’re at least appropriately, uh, _attired_ beneath your overcoat there, right?”

“I wore clothes, yes,” said the clown, tilting his head.

“Is this your boss’s idea of a joke?”

“He is something of a jokester, yes.”

It was bullshit, but there was hardly anything to be done about it now. Gabriel’s Angels had sent them the most unprepared stripper in Kansas. Sam wasn’t going to be paying attention to the act, anyway, and there was plenty of booze for the rest of them. Dean snatched up his fifth Sex on the Beach, grabbed one of the stupid hipster longnecks for Sam, and then ushered him to a chair in the middle of the room. His boyfriend, Kevin, looked at Dean warily, but put his hands over Sam’s eyes, anyway.

Dean waved the clown into the living room, and that’s when everything went all to hell.

In the corner, behind the kitchen counter, Benny and Crowley provided drinks simultaneously, Benny his over-spiked mixes, Crowley opening can after can of cheap beer. Charlie lit up a truly enormous blunt and started passing it around to Sam’s little college friends, whose names Dean hadn’t bothered to learn, since they were all going to hate him after this. Jo just glared at him, which wasn’t actually that unusual.

“I was told there would be a cake,” announced the clown. “Am I supposed to jump out of it?”

“For the love of God,” Dean said, hitting play on Sam’s iPod, settling it in the speaker bay, “please just start stripping.”

Which is when Dean discovered that things had only previously gone to purgatory, and that _now_ things had gone to hell.

First, there was Sam’s music. Dean hadn’t thought to check the current playlist—his own taste was impeccable, and strippable. Sam, on the other hand, listened to classical and instrumental jazz and whatever the fuck he could find on NPR. Boring shit. Ultimately not music prime for taking clothes off seductively.

So when some crap called “The Gates of Kiev” started up, Dean was absolutely unprepared. Shocked, even. Frozen, and thank God Sam hadn’t had his not-so-secret Disney playlist queued up.

The clown seemed to like the music well enough, but it was quickly apparent that the had no fucking clue how to strip. He started unbuttoning his overcoat like he had just come home from work and was preparing to hang it up. Slipping it off of his arms, the clown looked around for a chair, found one, and hung it neatly over the back.

Either obstinately or obliviously, he kept removing his ill-fitting dress clothes. Maybe there was interesting underwear beneath his long-sleeve white button up and poorly-knotted blue tie. It was possible the clown had a jockstrap under his loose slacks, Dean supposed. But no, all that was under the button-up was a goddamn undershirt, and the guy fucking folded it up before setting it in the chair holding his coat, and Benny sounded like he might be having a heart-attack behind the kitchen bar.

“Why is everyone laughing?” Sam asked. “And why are you playing my study music for anthropology?”

“Because your brother’s an enormous dick,” Kevin said. “I’m Pontius Piloting out of this, because I have no idea what’s going on.”

Sam kept his eyes screwed shut as Kevin backed off. “Can I open my eyes now?”

“Might as fucking well.” Dean pinched at his forehead, trying to ignore the sputtering laughter of Crowley from behind the kitchen bar, louder than the rest of the room, especially with Juliet following suit with her off-pitched howling. He knew exactly what was about to happen, if taking Sam to the circus as a kid was any kind of sign.

Slowly, Sam blinked open his eyes. The room had gone dreadfully quiet; Dean couldn’t decide if that was good or bad. But Sam wasn’t screaming yet—maybe he just hadn’t noticed the clown’s big shoes, or his rainbow curls, or the stupid red nose that made him look like a seal balancing a ball.

As the clown looked down at his tie, as though he couldn’t figure out whether or not to take it off, Sam straightened and stiffened in his chair. Behind him, Kevin looked confused, and it occurred to Dean that Sam might not have shared his deepest darkest secret phobia with anyone outside of Dean’s circle.

Glancing up, still rubbing the end of his tie between thumb and finger, the clown said, “I’m supposed to wish you a happy birthday,” and he honked his nose with his other hand.

Sam started shrieking, but it didn’t last for long, because he jumped up and ran out of the condo, chair falling in his wake, Juliet scampering toward the door. Crowley was whistling and shouting for her to heel, which was probably why Kevin was able to sneak up on Dean.

Who knew the little dude could throw such a goddamn good right hook?

Kevin went after Sam, and all of their college buddies filtered out behind him, and Dean was suddenly left with his three best friends, a shit ton of alcohol, some fucking decent weed, and a half-dressed sort-of clown. Dean knew he should go after Sam and apologize, then come home and wait for Sam to prank him back. It was his responsibility as the big brother, after all.

Instead, Dean shrugged, turned on and turned up his own music, and said, “Can’t let all these party favors go to waste.”

Charlie rolled another blunt. Proving his worth as the official unofficial bartender, Benny started mixing drinks as fast as Crowley could hand him booze and mixers. Soon enough, there was a line of various drinks along the countertop.

The clown snatched up an ungarnished whiskey sour and downed it in about four seconds. Not that Dean was counting. It definitely wasn’t one of the hottest things he’d ever seen, and he certainly didn’t watch the way the guy swallowed, or the bob of his Adam’s apple. Most importantly, Dean absolutely didn’t think about fucking the clown’s face.

He blindly grabbed a drink of his own, Sex on the Beach number six.

“Hit me,” said the clown. “I’m not getting paid for this, and I would prefer to be drunk to sober while I’m stuck in clown gear.”

“Difficult to argue with that,” said Crowley, chuckling. “What’s your poison?”

“More whiskey. Please, heavenly Father, more whiskey.”

Dean didn’t taste his mixed drink as it slid down his own throat. He was too busy trying to will away his erection. A two-fisted drinker? No chaser? Be still Dean’s heart.

He nearly fell as Charlie dragged him over to her couch by the crook of his arm. “Ease down, Thundercloud,” she told Dean, dragging him down to sit beside her. “You need to chill the fuck out and stop trying to fuck the clown’s ears with your eyes.”

“Do I have a clown kink, Charlie?” asked Dean, accepting the blunt gratefully, taking a too large hit. “I mean, the eye makeup is pretty sweet, and you know how I feel about Manic Panic hair.”

“I don’t know, handmaiden, what about the nose?”

Dean handed the blunt back to her. “It’s there. Don’t know if it would get in the way until...a man’s gotta experiment. You don’t know until you try, that kind of thing.”

Charlie sputtered as she laughed; smoke blew out her nose haphazardly. “By the power of _Grayskull,_ Dean. You have a clown kink.” Charlie kept giggling, hand shaking as she tried to hand the blunt back. “I can’t believe you have a _clown kink.”_

Jo scoffed, grabbing it out of Charlie’s hand. “You fucking skipped me, Hermione. Don’t be such a turtle.”

“At least I don’t have a _clown kink,”_ said Charlie, drawing the syllables out as far apart as possible.

“Shut the fuck up,” he mumbled as Jo snickered and bogarted the rest of the blunt.

The night only got weirder from there. Sam certainly wasn’t going to drink his expensive-ass beer, so Dean wound up with two of those. He had no idea how hops could be organic, or what organic truly _meant_ to be honest, but the beer was palatable, though Dean could have done without the goddamn blueberry pancake aftertaste.

He took a seventh Sex on the Beach to rinse the taste out of his mouth.

Charlie and Clown wound up sitting across from each other, him perched on the coffee table and her on the couch with Jo in her lap, all four of them smoking joint after joint because Jo had run out of wraps and only had papers left. Dean nursed his drink, listening to them talk shit about electronics, Clown and Jo both being engineers and Charlie just being a goddamn nerd. They argued the logistics of reprogramming a Roomba—something about male ports and female ports and how they could modify it to plug it into a computer and then Dean completely checked out and just watched Clown.

He was fucking gorgeous, when Dean looked past the greasepaint. Clown had finally undone his tie, though the ends were still dangling around his neck. They framed Clown’s fucking delicious collarbones nicely, and drew Dean’s attention to the depression at the bottom of his neck that Dean can never remember the name of. Whatever it was, he wanted to do a body shot out of it; wanted to lick his way across his strong, tan, muscular shoulders; wanted to grab him by his tie and just kiss the crazy into him.

“What do you think?”

It took Dean a few seconds to figure out Clown was talking to him, and not just because it was almost impossible to hear anyone over Black Sabbath. “About the creepy UFO vacuum?”

Clown smiled for the first time since he walked in the door; Dean felt all gooey and warm, but it might have been the alcohol. “That's very Neo-Luddite of you.”

“I'm about to sound stupid, but all I heard is _Neon Genesis Evangelion.”_

And his eyes lit up, blue like dusk and storm, electric and ozone. “I'm incredibly fond of that series.”

Jo waved her hand between their eyes. “Okay, Catherine and Heathcliff, we were discussing the marriage of a Twitter bot and a modified Roomba.”

“Charlie, you're gonna ship it, aren't you?” Dean asked with a sigh.

“Rare pair OTP FTW!” Charlie bounced a little, and Jo grabbed the arm of the couch to keep her balance. “I think I'll write a coffee shop AU.”

“Don’t you still have that mermaid fic to finish?” asked Jo, shaking her head and reaching for yet another joint.

Charlie shrugged. “Mermaid dick is kind of anatomically difficult to put into words.”

The clown side-eyed her. Hard. “Dean,” he began, “since I'm apparently staying and I need to leave this conversation quickly, could you show me where to hang my coat?”

“Is that what they're calling it these days?”

“Fuck your mother, Fergus!” Dean yelled back across the room, breaking contact with the half-dressed clown for the first time since they started talking.

“I'd sure like to fuck your mother, Fergus,” Benny said, smiling, all sharp teeth.

“Hard. Agree.” Charlie picked up her phone and continued, “I think I still have her number, actually.”

Jo giggled. “If you don’t, I do.”

“I swear to Satan, if you initiate an orgy with my mum—”

Clown cleared his throat. “Coat?”

Dean hummed his agreement, then downed the rest of his drink. He swore Clown was looking at his throat in motion the same way Dean had checked his out earlier. It was impossible not to picture _himself_ on his knees this time.

“Give me a hand?” asked Dean with his best suggestive smirk. Dean held it out, hoping Clown would grab it and help him off the couch, and _oh,_ he did. Clown was stronger than Dean expected, pulled Dean right up and into his arms, fingers splayed across Dean’s back, skin hot enough to feel through his Zep tee. Dean’s hand was trapped between them; he’d probably have landed lips to lips if Clown’s red nose hadn’t been in the way.

Benny threw Clown’s tan coat at them, the buckle catching Dean on the same side of his face that Kevin punched. “Closet’s in the entryway,” he said, “but careful with our chere. It took us a decade to get him out of there last time.”

 _“God_ but I hate every single one of you,” Dean muttered, pushing between Clown and Charlie, storm-weaving off through the crowd toward the front door. Clown’s coat had migrated from Dean’s head to Dean’s arm, though it was no longer neatly folded by any stretch of the imagination. He looked over his shoulder to make sure Clown had followed him, finally wondering why the hell he’d never taken off the wig or the nose along with his shoes.

Before Dean could ask, Clown opened the closet door, shoved Dean inside, and closed it behind them both. It was dark—he really should’ve replaced that bulb that blew last summer—and Dean was tangled up in one of Sam’s jackets. As he lost his balance, he took half the coats with him, metal hangers skittering along the pole. They cushioned Dean’s head from thudding against the wall, giving him a chance to regain what footing he could before there was suddenly six feet of warmth pressed between Dean’s legs and up against him.

One of Benny’s bowling trophies crunched underfoot.

“Not for nothin’,” Dean began as a pair of thumbs hooked under the tail of his shirt, “but I usually have at least a nickname by this point.”

“I’m not allowed to give you my name.” His voice was somehow huskier, or maybe it was just that they could actually hear each other now, even with “Some Kind of Monster” blaring from the living room.

Dean bared his neck, Clown’s mouth fumbling to find his skin in the dark, nothing more than the light from the crack under the door to guide the way. The weird squishy texture of Clown’s nose was surprisingly nice, and oh God, Dean really did have a clown kink.

_Well. Fuck._

“So then what’s your stripper name?” he asked, trying to focus on the arousing aspects that had nothing to do with Clown being a clown.

“It hadn’t occurred to me to choose one,” Clown admitted, scruff scratching against Dean’s skin as he spoke.

_Good. Concentrate on the stubble. Stubble is good._

“Jesus Christ,” said Dean, caught somewhere between raging disbelief and brain-melting joy now that he’d finally found the loops of Clown’s slacks and pulled them flush. “How do you hide this monster in your pants?”

“A series of careful adjustments, loosened seams, and judicious prayer.”

Dean’s laugh turned abruptly into a moan as his pulse point was bitten and sucked. “Name,” he said, shifting his hands to cup Clown’s ass, using the leverage to grind against him properly. “ _Fuck,_ I need a name. I can’t keep thinking of you as Clown.”

“So pick one.”

“I can’t exactly think.” Dean shifted his weight, and Clown’s shifted with him, like they’d been doing this for longer than a handful of minutes, uncannily mirrored, a push for a pull. Those hands were well and truly under Dean’s shirt now, but they hadn’t just zeroed in on his nipples like most drunken gropes tended to. Clown was deliberate in the way he dragged his fingertips over Dean’s skin, like he was fucking fingerpainting. “You’re sort of everywhere right now.”

His hands stopped; there was a devious edge to the smile at the edge of Dean’s jaw that he would never have expected to see in the light. “I could stop.”

“And _then_ I would call you Asshole.”

Clown’s grin turned sweet again right before he kissed the spot just behind Dean’s ear, and he wasn’t used to softness when it came to anonymous fucks. Dean always tried to start off gentle and slow and, without fail, the other person would want it fast and rough. It was impossible not to shudder beneath Clown’s touch—his hands, his mouth, his hips rolling against Dean’s unhurriedly.

“Took you for the grab and go type,” Dean said, and he wondered if he sounded as breathless as he felt.

“Who says I’m not?” Clown moved a hand to the back of Dean’s neck, gripping it tight. “Who said I’m not taking exactly what I please?”

 _“Fuck.”_ Dean wanted to close his eyes, but it was pointless here in the dark. “For the love of _God,_ kiss me,” and he’d never actually kissed a man before, his male partners never interested, and neither was Dean. Relationships were ten kinds of fucked; love was for other people, and kissing meant commitment, and Dean didn’t give a flying shit about that anymore, there in the closet.

Clown gave the lobe of Dean’s ear a parting nibble. He raised his head, and his nose bumped against the side of Dean’s own. It squeaked.

“I can’t take off the nose,” Clown told him. “It’s glued on.”

“What about your hair?”

“That, too.”

“That Gabe’s a real motherfucker,” said Dean. “Kiss me, anyway.”

“Demanding little thing,” muttered Clown, “aren’t you?”

Dean’s eyes had finally adjusted to the scant amount of light, and now he could stare right into Clown’s. _Ethereal,_ he thought, and was glad his geek of a brother had twisted his arm into helping him study for the ACTs, because that was the only goddamn word for it.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Dean finally replied, then gave up waiting, just sunk his fingers into cheap multicolored polyester and went for where he could barely make out the outline of Clown’s lips. They both had chapped skin and dry mouth from the booze and the weed, sandpaper against sandpaper, like Velcro. It was so fucking good, though, the way the caught and pulled with each other, even as they moved together, especially _because_ they moved together, an unsmooth glide like the rest of their encounter so far.

They didn’t get to exploring teeth and tongues before Clown pulled back. “As much as I’m enjoying this,” he began, fingers flying to Dean’s belt, too fast to be human, “I’d like to put my mouth elsewhere.”

“That’s the nicest way anyone’s ever told me that they want to suck my cock.” Clown was trying to figure out how to get to his knees, pulling Dean’s jeans and underwear as he went. “Hang on,” said Dean, “just a second. I’ve got a condom. Back pocket.”

“Unexpected,” Clown said as he fished around for the condom; Dean thought he might be balancing precariously on his gym bag, unless Clown was just _that good_ at crouching.

“I have a _lot_ of sex,” Dean explained, voice slightly strained as he pulled on his dick to keep it hard during negotiations. “And maybe a scare once or twice,” which he hadn’t meant to admit, but Sex on the Beach was apparently a truth serum, too. “I’m a lot less stupid than I used to be.”

Clown huffed a laugh, more air than sound. “A real Boy Scout, then,” he noted. The wrapper crinkled, barely audible over the strains of Judas Priest. Crowley was singing along, from the sounds of it. Dean worked his hand more quickly.

“Girl Scout, too. Anyone Scout, really. I’m an equal-opportunity slu—oh _Jesus.”_

Dean had seen it in porn before, and heard of it being done, like a sexual urban legend, but he’d never had someone roll a condom over his cock with their mouth. He thought he might come from the novelty alone, moving his hand down to squeeze the bottom of his shaft. Clown’s lips hit Dean’s index finger faster than he’d expected them to, and Dean jerked his hand away. As far as he knew, Clown’s mouth might be hot enough to burn, because Dean was already starting to sweat.

Even after years of experience and practice, Dean was unable to deepthroat. If he was being honest—which was apparently something he was into as of two drinks ago—he wasn’t certain he was any good at giving head. Eating out, sure, no matter the hole; otherwise, he was okay at holding, and not bad at sucking, and never solid on what to do with his tongue, especially when he was drunk. Which honestly (again) wasn’t even _close_ to fair, considering how well he could fellate a longneck.

Clown, though...sweet bisexual Lord, it was the best blowjob Dean had ever had.

The suction was perfect, cheeks hollowed, Dean’s cockhead tight in Clown’s throat. He bobbed, and Dean threw one hand out to slap on the closet door, sinking the fingers of his other back into the cheap wig. Clown let Dean fuck his face, and Dean knew if he looked down, if he did more than feel Clown’s tongue laving over the latex and his hands gripping the backs of Dean’s thighs, then that would be it, all done, game over.

Dean looked down anyway.

Clown’s eyes were open, but his brow was furrowed in concentration, attention glued to Dean’s waist for all he could tell. When Dean moved his hand from the door to run a thumb over Clown’s cheek, he slowed down, started sucking less and less, concentrating on the head. Dean growled, both hands in the wig now—and it was embarrassingly good, that made-in-China polyester fiber on his skin—and started trying to fuck deeper into Clown’s mouth.

He earned a hard smack on his thigh for it, and that was that. Dean came in Clown’s throat, the stupid red nose giving a half-hearted squeak that did nothing to disguise Dean’s high-pitched grunt.

“Fuck me,” he said as soon as Clown was easing his way back to standing, Dean’s pants still around his ankles, condom abandoned to slide its own way off of his cock.

“I didn’t bring condoms.” Clown’s voice sounded terrible. “I was told it wasn’t that kind of party.”

“I’ve got more than one.” Dean’s brain was still buzzing from his orgasm and from crossfading—his high had hit all at once.

“They won’t fit.”

Dean did not have time to have an aneurysm. He grasped at information as it clouded past his head. “Benny’s got the same fantastic problem you do. Check his coat.”

“Which is where?”

“Somewhere behind my head.”

Clown kissed the corner of his mouth; his breath was bitter, too much like pre-sealed lube. “It would make more sense for you to turn and look for it,” he suggested. “Easier for proper stretching.”

And yes. Yes, it was. Besides, Dean couldn’t remember Benny’s coat by feel, and he was eager to feel those gorgeous fingers on the inside. Clown seemed steadier than Dean felt, anyway; he would ultimately have done a clumsy job, and then the inevitable fast sex would leave him unpleasantly sore in the morning.

Dean tried to make the search as short as possible until he realized that Clown wasn’t in any kind of rush. They hadn’t found any magically-convenient lube yet, so the pad of Clown’s thumb was dry, and there wasn’t any amount of spit that wouldn’t make it drag inside him, but Clown was _so fucking determined_ to get Dean to relax that it almost didn’t matter.

“I wish there was time to tongue you,” he told Dean harshly. “You seem the type that would fall apart from it. Has anyone done that for you? Rimmed you until you cried?”

“Not nearly as much as I’d like, no.”

Clown _tsked._ “What a crime against humanity.”

It was absurd, the way Clown had morphed from a dick in suit to cheerfully adorable to oversexed angel in a matter of hours. If Dean wasn’t on a mission, he’d have been willing to let his head spin.

The back of Dean’s shirt was pushed over his head, and he allotted himself a second to pull it off. Clown was instantly on Dean’s skin, one hand splayed over his chest, covering Dean’s shoulders with open-mouthed kisses, backing off again to use the spit it produced to cover his finger, pushing it into Dean instead of his thumb.

“That’s goddamn brilliant,” wheezed Dean.

“I have my moments.”

Dean found Benny’s winter-weight overcoat and a condom about the time Clown found his prostate, and Dean prayed that he didn’t bite through the wool. Clown wasn’t fast, but he was merciless, spending time rubbing around it, beside it, sweeping in front on his almost-withdrawals. All the while, Dean struggles not to just fuck back on Clown’s finger, because he gets the feeling that Clown might pull out altogether if he did.

It was a goddamn miracle that Dean even had the presence of mind to keep searching the remarkable number of pockets on Benny’s coat to find a single-use packet of lube, but he did, and then he thankfully did. He handed everything off to Clown, who pulled his finger out way too fast for Dean’s liking, only to equip himself like a fucking montage and start easing his cock into Dean’s ass, instead.

“Wanted to feel how nice and tight you are around more than my finger,” Clown said into Dean’s ear. He heard the crinkle of the condom wrapper, saw it hit the floor in a wadded-up ball, the little plastic sachet of lube not far behind, squeezed to death and empty. “Are you going to be good and take it for me?”

Dean squeaked. “Go slow,” he managed to say. He did his best to focus on “Solar Angels”, stuck on repeat. If he concentrated on the music, his drunk ass might stay relaxed enough to do this minimally-prepped. Thank Christ he’d already come; Dean’s body was still practically jelly.

“Of course I’m going to go slow. I have to see if I can make you come twice in one closet.”

He wasn’t sure that was a possibility in his mid-thirties, but Dean was determined. Dean got fucked multiple times a week; surely all that practice would pay off.

Clown was dedicated to giving him enough time to recover, pushing in one tortuously slow inch at a time. The stretch was borderline painful, a sting Dean knew would leave him too sore for any action that weekend. He loved it though, the gradual sensation of being filled, the way he had to will himself to breathe instead of hyperventilate, the teasing touch of Clown’s fingers on his cock, still flaccid from orgasm and so, so sensitive. Clown coaxed Dean’s body on both sides, rolled his balls in his hand like he was encouraging them.

By the time Clown was halfway in, Dean started to moan, laying his forehead on his arm, still braced on the closet wall. His dick was twitching, trying to fill, trying to obey, and fuck if that didn’t make it better, knowing this stranger had such command over him. Dean pushed back without thinking about it, and Clown swatted his thigh again.

“If you want me to fuck you,” said Clown, “then you’re going to hold still.”

“Okay,” Dean quickly replied. “Fuck, yeah, okay. Whatever you say.”

Clown kept going. “I may have been sent to work, but I’m not here to serve you.” The inexorable slide and Clown’s stupid sex voice was going to fucking kill Dean before he even got another erection. “You’re going to remember me, whether I ever see you again or not,” and he pulled Dean’s cock with purpose now, and it burned and tingled right into his gut, into his balls. “Do you want me to keep touching you?”

“Yes, God, _please.”_

But Clown dropped Dean’s aching cock, instead. “Too bad,” and he clapped his hand over Dean’s mouth as he slammed his way home.

He was shouting and babbling into Clown’s hand as he fucked him, pounding at an unforgiving pace, Dean so surprised by the sudden change in technique that his cock finished hardening immediately. The need to come was fucking overwhelming, and unexpected, and Dean reached for himself only to have Clown sink his teeth into his shoulder.

Dean had never come untouched. There were a lot of firsts in that closet, including fastest finish, and one-sided French kissing because Dean’s mouth was hanging open, and having a one-time partner taking care to redress him, and hold him while he came down. He’d always been unfortunately quick to fall asleep after a good fuck, and that had been an _excellent_ fuck, and the last thing Dean remembered was Clown pulling a blanket over his shoulders.

And that was that.

 

* * *

 

Dean scrubs a hand over his face. He thinks about getting up out of bed to undress and put on his pajamas, or maybe at least take his boots off, but that requires actually getting up, which isn’t going to happen any time soon as far as he’s concerned. His ass fucking hurts, and Dean thinks his cock might actually be chafed, so he does expend enough energy to roll onto his side.

The little light on the end of his phone keeps blinking at him, taunting him. He should probably see what Charlie wants, or throw a text at Sam. Dean could yell for Benny and ask what the hell he did to take care of Dean’s ass after the last time _they_ fucked, except he’s at work covering for Dean. He could always scream for Fergus and beg him for whatever wonder drug he takes when his fibro flares up, but that involves talking to Fergus before noon, which is a royally stupid idea because he’s bound to be Morrissey levels of depressed.

Instead of taking any of his obvious options, Dean picks up his phone, and dials the number for Gabriel’s Angels, praying it’s open.

After three back-to-back calls and five rings, Gabe answers. “The fuck do you want at eleven-oh-four?”

“That’s a real spectacular way to greet a customer, asshole.”

“Ugh, _fine.”_ Gabe clears his throat. “Gabriel’s Angels! Where every sweetie is a fantasy come true. How can I help you today?”

Dean chuckles. It hurts. “This is Dean Winchest—”

“Dear God, Dean, I know who you are. You’ve screwed half my staff. Now what do you want?”

“I need the name of the fucking terrible stripper you sent over last night.”

Gabriel laughs so loudly that the sound muffles, not because Dean has to set the phone down, but because Gabriel does on the other end of the line. “Oh my God,” he finally says, still laughing. “You fucked my brother last night, didn’t you?” he asks, voice getting louder as he picks the phone back up. “Jesus, Dean, what did you cry out when you came, ‘the shorter clown’?”

“Just tell me his name, Gabe.”

“You know that’s against company policy.”

Dean snarls, “He’s your fucking brother!”

“Why, yes,” says Gabe, “he apparently is.”

“Then why—”

“Because he was my employee last night,” Gabe explains. “He lost a bet like, three or four months ago, so I held my favor over his head until something truly embarrassing came up. And then you ordered a clown stripper. Perfect opportunity!”

“Name, Gabe.”

“Not happening, sweetheart.”

“Name.”

“No.”

Dean sighs. “I will give you the seventeen worst reviews Yelp has ever seen, and your girls will never work bachelor parties at the Roadhouse ever, ever again.”

There’s a long pause before Gabe tells him, “Castiel. His name’s Castiel.”

Castiel. That’s an _infinitely_ shoutable name. “Phone number?”

“Uh-uh. You’re going to have to work for that, Dean-o. Besides, he plays for your team—strictly no relationships. Though he isn’t as oversexed as you are.”

Dean wants to argue with that, but Gabe’s more than right. “Fine, whatever. I’ll just Search the Web it.” _Can’t be that hard to find an engineer named Castiel._

“I can’t believe it,” says Gabe. Dean hears the rustle of what’s probably a candy bar wrapper, knowing Gabe. “Dean “One Night Stand” Winchester wants a repeat. I had no idea Baby Brother was that good.”

“Better than you, probably.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Actually, no, not really.”

“Fuck you, too, Dean,” Gabe says around a mouthful of food. “At least I won’t have to fire anyone else for sleeping with you, I suppose.”

Dean thinks he mumbles something that’s only half cursing as he gets off the phone, but he’s trying too hard not to feel bad for fucking a bunch of girls out of jobs. _Gabe is such a dick._

He gets as far as opening up his web browser before Charlie calls. “Yes, my liege.”

“Dude, you haven’t looked at a single text message. What gives?”

“I got reamed last night, in case you didn’t notice.”

“Oh,” Charlie begins, sounding amused, “everyone noticed. Which is why I’ve been texting you. I’ve got a name and number to hand off to you, Sleeping Beauty.”

Dean groans. “That’s what I get for not checking my texts first thing.”

“Yeah, I weaseled it out of him when Jo and I borrowed your bathroom to help him pry off his nose and wig.” She snorts before adding, “I can’t believe you let a clown fuck you in the coat closet.”

“I’m never gonna live this down, am I?”

“Juliet stole the nose.”

Dean remembers where that nose has been and shudders. “I could’ve gone ninety-five years without knowing that.”

“Benny took the wig with him to work.”

“Oh fucking dammit, I hate all of you.” Charlie’s still giggling as Dean hangs up on her.

This is too much. Dean’s brain legitimately can’t handle all of this. He needs coffee, and he has no one to text and whine about it, so now Dean has no choice but to get up.

Jo’s right; Dean really should get a Keurig for his bedside table.

He winces his way out of bed and limps out his door, thankful that he took the room on the ground floor for more than his pyrophobia. The kitchen isn’t far; if he’s lucky, Benny forgot to turn the pot off again. It’ll taste like more shit than Benny’s coffee usually does, but Dean doesn’t care right now.

Dean’s almost made it to the kitchen when he sees the couch in the living room out of the corner of his eye.

There’s a Castiel on his couch.

His face is scrubbed clean of greasepaint, and his lips look so kissable that Dean wants to play Sleeping Beauty. Castiel’s hair is sticking out in every direction; Dean hopes it's a normal state instead of a side effect of having a wig glued to his head. Regardless, he wants to play with it, maybe grab it during another spectacular blow job, or else thread his fingers through it during a long, high make-out session. Castiel’s been covered up with the quilt Jo keeps up in Charlie’s room, but Dean can still see that he's wearing Dean’s old AC-DC tee.

Dean decides to let him sleep; maybe the coffee pot will wake him up. He'd much rather drag him off to cuddle him in bed, or else climb in behind him on the couch.

Sure enough, the smell of blessedly strong caffeine pulls Castiel into the kitchen. He winds his arms around Dean from behind, nestling his head between Dean’s shoulder blades as he yawns loudly. His morning wood presses against Dean’s ass, and Dean can't help but grunt in discomfort.

“Too rough last night,” Castiel says, voice still colored by sleep.

“I have fewer than zero regrets.” Dean pours the coffee, but doesn't turn around. It's too nice, the surprising and easy domesticity. Castiel must be as snuggly as Dean is. “I usually make breakfast for my overnight guests,” he says, “but I hope you'll understand that I'm—”

“In no condition to,” finishes Castiel. “Coffee is perfectly sufficient.” He reaches around Dean to grab a mug.

“I think there might be some biscuits in the freezer. I could throw some in the oven.”

“It might be more prudent to put them on a pan and put them in gently.” Another yawn before he asks, “I don't suppose you have honey, do you?”

“Yeah,” Dean replies after a long drink of his coffee. “Sam keeps bringing me jars of local raw.”

“That sounds like a heavenly breakfast.” Castiel kisses the side of his neck. “I don't date,” he says. “I’m finding myself quickly growing fond of you, though.”

Dean hums thoughtfully, finally untangling himself from Castiel’s embrace and turning to face him. “Maybe super platonic frequent sex partners?”

“I think that would be workable.”

“So breakfast, maybe lay around in our underwear watching Netflix?”

Castiel smirks. “I think I should check you over first. Kiss it better.”

“I think that would be workable, too.”

The biscuits turn to charcoal in the oven while Castiel not only kisses but also tongues Dean’s pain back to pleasure. They make more, and then try to watch _Star Trek,_ winding up spending all of the episode wound up in each other, necking like teenagers until Juliet hops up on the couch with them, clown shoe in tow.

Castiel puts them on again before Dean fucks him. Just for nostalgia’s sake, of course. After all, it's not like Dean has a kink or anything.

**Author's Note:**

> Reminder that being aromantic _does not mean_ that a person is promiscuous. Dean just really likes having a lot of sex. Got it? Cool.
> 
> If you liked the sexy clown fic (I can't believe I just typed that), please share [the aesthetic post on tumblr](https://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/165696969194/you-know-what-they-say-about-men-with-big-shoes)!
> 
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> 
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End file.
